UC-NI 


OTfl 


STAGE  GUILD  PLAYS 


DUST  OF  THE  ROAD 


UNIVERSITY  FARM 


PS  634- 
Cr<b 


UNTYF 


STAGE  GUILD  PLAYS 
DUST  OF  THE  ROAD 


DUST  OF  THE  ROAD 

A  PLAY  IN  ONE  ACT 

BY 

KENNETH  SAWYER  GOODMAN 


THE  STAGE  GUILD 
CHICAGO 


Copyright,  1912,  by 

Kenneth  Sawyer  Goodman 

All  rights  reserved. 

Second  Edition. 


NOTICE.  Applications  for  permission  to  per 
form  this  play  should  be  made  to  The  Stage 
Guild,  Railway  Exchange  Building,  Chicago; 
no  performance  of  it  may  take  place  without 
consent  of  the  owners  of  the  acting  rights. 


DUST  OF  THE  ROAD 

A  Play  in  One  Act 


CHARACTERS: 

Peter  Steele. 

Prudence  Steele,  his  wife. 

An  Old  Man,  Prudence's  uncle. 

A  Tramp. 


The  time  is  about  one  o'clock  of  a  Christmas  morning 
in  the  early  seventies.  The  place  is  the  living  room  of  a 
comfortable  and  fairly  prosperous  Middle  Western 
farmer.  At  the  right  as  you  face  the  stage  is  a  fireplace 
with  a  glowing  fire  in  it.  Beside  the  fire  is  a  large  arm 
chair  in  which  Prudence  is  sitting.  At  her  elbow  is  a 
small  table  with  a  lighted  lamp,  having  an  opaque  shade 
of  green  tin.  At  the  left  is  a  door  giving'  into  other  parts 
of  the  house;  at  the  back  centre  a  door  giving  outside. 
There  is  a  larger  table  at  left  centre  near  the  front  of  the 
stage.  There  is  also  a  lighted  lamp  on  this  table,  but  the 
back  of  the  stage  is  in  semi-darkness.  Near  the  outside 
door  is  a  window,  the  curtains  of  which  are  drawn.  As 
the  curtain  rises,  the  Old  Man  has  just  shut  and  bolted 
the  outside  door  as  if  shutting  some  one  out.  He  is  only 
partly  dressed  and  carries  a  lighted  candle  in  his  hand. 

PRUDENCE.     Well,  what  did  he  say? 

OLD  MAN.     Nothing.    He  '  s  gone,  if  that  *  s  any  comfort 
to  you. 

PRUDENCE.     It  is  a  comfort  to  me.     I  don '  t  like  folks 
coming  to  the  door  at  this  time  of  night. 

5 


OLD  MAN.  You  might  have  stirred  yourself  to  take  a  look 
at  him.  He  was  that  cold  I  could  hear  his  teeth  clatter. 

PRUDENCE.    What  was  he  like? 

OLD  MAN.  Youngish,  I '  d  say,  with  thin  cheeks  and  a 
yellow  beard.  But  I  never  seen  such  old  looking  eyes  as 
he  had. 

PRUDENCE.    Go  to  bed,  uncle. 

OLD  MAN.  Both  his  hands  were  bandaged.  I  could  see 
the  blood  on  '  em. 

PRUDENCE.  Well,  what  of  it?  We  can't  be  feeding 
every  beggar  that  comes  to  the  house. 

OLD  MAN.  [At  the  window.]  He  ain'  t  turned  the  wil 
lows  at  the  bend  of  the  road.  I  could  holler  to  him  yet. 

PRUDENCE.  Go  back  to  bed,  I  tell  you,  and  let  me  read 
my  Bible  till  Peter  comes  in. 

OLD  MAN.  [Going  toward  the  inside  door.]  You'  ve  set 
me  thinking,  Prudence  Steele.  You've  set  me  thinking 
again. 

PRUDENCE.    Hush  your  mouth,  and  go  to  bed. 

OLD  MAN.  Aye,  aye,  that '  s  it !  '  To  them  that  hath  shall 
be  given,  and  from  him  that  hath  not  shall  be  taken  away 
even  that  which  he  hath. '  If  folks  only  knows  enough  to 
keep  their  mouths  shut. 

PRUDENCE.    Now,  you'  re  blaspheming  again. 

OLD  MAN.  Maybe  I  be.  But  if  I  was  to  open  my  mouth 
now  and  tell  what  I  can  remember  clear  as  day,  wouldn't 
I  be  serving  the  Lord?  Answer  me  that. 

PRUDENCE.     Nobody  '  d  believe  you. 

OLD  MAN.  I  ain' t  asking  '  em  to.  If  you  and  Peter  can 
disremember  what  happened  in  this  room,  it  ain't  for  me 
to  turn  against  my  own  kin. 

6 


PRUDENCE.    Nothing  happened  in  this  room. 

OLD  MAN.  Maybe  I  never  seen  thirty  one-hundred  dollar 
bills  counted  out  on  this  table. 

PRUDENCE.    Go  to  bed. 

OLD  MAN.  I'm  going — I'm  going,  but  it  would  do  me 
good  to  see  them  that '  s  proud  pulled  down  and  her  that 
would  n'  t  spare  a  crust  for  a  lame  beggar  on  Christmas 
Eve,  losing  a  piece  of  money  like  that  as  a  judgment.  It 
would  be  as  fine  a  judgment  as  ever  I  see  in  that  there 
book  of  yours. 

[The  old  man  goes  out  chuckling.  Prudence  fol 
lows  him  to  the  door,  closes  it,  listens  a  momentt 
then  blows  out  the  lamp  on  the  larger  table  and 
returns  to  the  chair  by  the  fire.  She  turns  the 
pages  of  the  book  and  then  lays  it  face  down  on 
her  knee  and  puts  her  hand  over  her  eyes.  The 
whole  stage  is  now  nearly  dark,  the  only  light 
coming  from  the  lamp  on  the  small  table  and  from 
the  fire  in  the  grate.  The  Tramp  opens  the  out 
side  door  and  steps  into  the  room.  Prudence  stirs 
a  little  and  the  book  drops  from  her  lap,  rousing 
her.  She  sits  up  and  listens.  The  Tramp  closes 
the  door  and  shoots  the  bolt.] 

PRUDENCE.     You  '  re  powerful  late  getting  in. 

TRAMP.  Aye,  maybe  I  am.  [He  rattles  the  door  to  see  if 
it  is  fast.] 

PRUDENCE.  Hush  your  noise  with  the  bolt,  can*  t  you ! 
You  '  11  be  having  Uncle  down  here  again. 

TRAMP.     I '  11  take  my  chance  of  that ! 
PRUDENCE.     What'  s  the  matter  with  your  voice? 
TRAMP.     It '  s  the  river  fog  sticking  in  my  throat. 

PRUDENCE.  [Rising]  Come  here  and  let  me  look  at 
you.  I  never  heard  you  speak  with  that  voice  before. 

7 


TRAMP.  [Stepping  into  the  light.]  I  dare  say  you  never 
did! 

PRUDENCE.  God  save  us!  I  thought  you  were  my  hus 
band. 

TRAMP.  I  gathered  as  much  from  your  friendly  greeting. 
[Pie  comes  a  step  nearer.'] 

PRUDENCE.  Stand  off  or  I '  11  scream !  What  do  you 
want?  Who  are  you? 

TRAMP.     What '  s  the  need  of  your  knowing? 
PRUDENCE.     Tell  me  what  you  want  and  get  out  of  my 
house.    You  need  n'  t  grin  at  me.    I '  m  not  afraid  of  you ! 

TRAMP.     You  '  re  a  bold  woman ! 

PRUDENCE.  I  have  cause  to  be,  with  a  husband  leaving 
me  lonesome  half  the  nights  of  the  year,  and  beggars 
prowling  the  dark  like  rats. 

TRAMP.  You  '  ve  a  brave  tongue  in  your  head,  and  a  kind 
voice,  like  a  chilly  wind  on  a  tin  church  steeple.  You  '  11 
ask  me  to  sit  by  your  fire  next  and  offer  me  a  sup  of 
something  hot. 

PRUDENCE.  I '  11  point  you  the  door  you  came  in  by,  and 
set  the  dog  to  your  coat-tails. 

TRAMP.  Fine  hospitality  for  the  beginning  of  Christmas 
Day. 

PRUDENCE.     Who  are  you? 

TRAMP.  Dust  of  the  road,  my  dear,  like  any  other 
man.  Dust  with  a  spark  of  fire  in  it. 

PRUDENCE.  You'  re  a  tramp,  by  the  looks  of  you  —  or 
worse. 

TRAMP.  A  tramp  is  it  ?  That '  s  what  you  '  d  call  a  gay 
fellow  tramping  the  hills  for  the  clean  joy  of  sun  and  air; 
keen  snow  in  winter  and  the  voice  of  the  birds  in  the 

8 


warm  season.  It '  s  what  you  '  d  call  the  lifeless  wretches, 
skulking  from  doorstep  to  doorstep  for  the  leavings  of 
other  folk'  s  tables.  I '  m  neither  the  one  sort  nor  the 
other,  but  the  name  fits  me  well  enough. 

PRUDENCE.  Whatever  you  call  yourself,  you  '  ve  got  no 
business  in  a  decent  person's  house  at  the  middle  of  the 
night. 

TRAMP.  [Taking  a  pipe  from  his  pocket  and  filling  it.} 
Is  your  husband  like  to  be  home  soon  ? 

PRUDENCE.  You '  11  hear  him  at  the  door  any  minute 
now.  If  you  '  re  thinking  of  robbery  you  '  d  better  be 
quick  about  it.  There  '  s  little  enough  to  take. 

TRAMP.  [Lighting  his  pipe  and  seating  himself  on  the 
edge  of  the  larger  table.]  You  can  keep  your  hand  off  that 
trinket  at  your  neck  and  make  your  mind  easy  about  the 
spoons.  I  '  m  a  disreputable  character,  a  prowler  in  the 
night,  a  betrayer  of  friendship ;  I  '  ve  none  of  what  you  '  d 
call  common  decency ;  I  '  d  as  leave  eat  your  bread  and 
kiss  your  hand  and  do  you  a  dirty  turn  afterward  as  not, 
but  —  well  —  I  '  ve  a  different  whim.  I '  m  not  here  to 
make  you  trouble. 

PRUDENCE.  Fine  ideas  you  '  ve  got !  What'  11  my  hus 
band  say  when  he  smells  the  smoke  of  your  pipe  ? 

TRAMP.  You  '  11  have  no  call  to  lie,  my  dear,  though 
you  '  ve  a  quick  enough  wit !  I'm  waiting  to  see  him 
myself  when  he  comes  in. 

PRUDENCE.  Like  as  not  he  '  11  break  your  head  for  your 
pains. 

TRAMP.     Aye,  like  as  not. 

PRUDENCE.  You  '  ve  got  gall  to  be  sitting  there  swinging 
your  feet. 

TRAMP.  I  '  m  thinking  what  I '  11  say  to  you  in  the  mean 
time. 

PRUDENCE.  You  won  '  t  be  doing  much  thinking  when 
he '  s  pounded  you  till  the  teeth  ache  in  your  jaws. 

9 


TRAMP.  [In  a  cold  sharp  voice  and  speaking  very  slowly.] 
Why  did  you  send  that  other  beggar  away  just  now,  Pru 
dence  Steele? 

PRUDENCE.     So  you  know  my  name,  do  you  ? 

TRAMP.  Yes!  It '  s  a  cruel  sounding  name,  Prudence 
Steele,  and  you '  ve  a  cruel  way  of  speaking  and  of  look 
ing  at  a  poor  man,  my  dear ! 

PRUDENCE.  You'  re  a  fine  hand  at  a  compliment,  Mister 
Tramp. 

TRAMP.     Why  did  you  send  him  away  ? 
PRUDENCE.     Send  who  away? 

TRAMP.  The  lame  man  with  the  bandages  on  his  hands 
and  feet. 

PRUDENCE.     What '  s  that  to  you  ? 

TRAMP.  I  was  standing  in  the  road.  I  saw  him  knock 
at  your  door.  I  saw  it  open  a  little.  I  saw  it  close  again. 
I  saw  him  go  away — just  as  I '  ve  seen  him  go  from  thou 
sands  of  other  doors. 

PRUDENCE.     He  must  be  a  friend  of  yours. 

TRAMP.     No.     He  was  one  once.    Now  he  '  s  a  creditor. 

PRUDENCE.  By  the  looks  of  it,  he '  11  have  a  hard  time 
getting  his  money. 

TRAMP.  Money  '  s  easy  to  find, —  sometimes  too  easy. 
Now  if  you  '  d  care  to  feel  in  my  pockets  —  [He  jingles 
coins  in  his  pockets.] 

PRUDENCE.  Well,  pay  him  then,  and  keep  him  from 
pestering  other  folks. 

TRAMP.  One  is  n'  t  always  minded  to  pay  one  '  s  debts. 
And  sometimes  it '  s  not  so  easy  as  you  '  d  think.  Only 
one  day  of  the  year  I  walk  the  same  road  with  him.  I  fol 
low  him  with  the  money  in  my  hand.  I  met  him  at  your 

10 


gate  just  now  and  offered  it.  He  turned  aside  his  face. 
Would  you  like  to  see  the  coins?  [Holding  out  his  hand 
with  coins.]  You  must.  Thirty  pieces  of  silver  coined 
in  the  Roman  mint  at  Jerusalem. 

[Faint  blue  light  now  illumines  the  face  of  the  Tramp 
and  becomes  brighter  as  the  scene  goes  on.~] 

PRUDENCE.  [Fascinated,  looking  at  the  money.]  You 
frighten  me.  What  are  those  stains  ? 

TRAMP.     Blood,  my  dear!    It '  s  blood  money. 

PRUDENCE.     Whose  blood? 

TRAMP.     The  man  '  s  who  knocked  at  your  door. 

PRUDENCE.     What  did  he  want? 

TRAMP.     He  came  to  give  —  not  to  ask. 

PRUDENCE.  What  beggar  would  be  going  about  the 
country  giving  something  away? 

TRAMP.  Yes,  Prudence  Steele,  what  beggar  would  be 
doing  that  ?  It '  s  a  riddle  for  you  to  read. 

PRUDENCE.  And  I  suppose  now,  you  '  ve  got  something 
to  give  me! 

TRAMP.     Yes,  something  you  won  '  t  be  likely  to  take. 

PRUDENCE.  Huh !  Advice,  I  suppose.  That '  s  the 
cheapest  thing  I  know. 

TRAMP.  Sit  down.  [Prudence  sits  down.]  Where  the 
man  with  the  wounded  hands  knocks  once,  he  knocks 
again.  Wherever  he  '  s  turned  away,  I  find  the  door  un 
latched.  But  open  the  door  to  him,  and  I  stand  in  the 
road  outside,  —  I'm  glad !  Oh,  I '  m  a  person  of  strange 
contradictions  —  like  any  other  man.  Yon  don  '  t  under 
stand  me. 

PRUDENCE.      No. 

1 1 


TRAMP.  No  matter.  When  he  knocks  again,  let  him 
come  in. 

PRUDENCE.    What  do  you  mean? 

TRAMP.  Let  him  come  in,  I  tell  you,  and  save  the  joy 
of  life  in  your  heart. 

[There  is  a  stamping  outside  and  the  door  is 
shaken.] 

PETER.  [Outside.]  Hi!  Open  the  door!  Prudence, 
I  say!  Wake  up  and  open  the  door! 

PRUDENCE.  [Starting  and  passing  her  hands  across  her 
eyes.]  It '  s  Peter.  It '  s  my  husband. 

TRAMP.     Open  the  door  for  him! 

[Prudence  runs  to  the  door  and  opens  it.  Peter 
enters  and  she  clings  to  him,  half  hysterical.  The 
Tramp  remains  seated  on  the  larger  table,  but  the 
light  fades  from  his  face.] 

PRUDENCE.     Peter  —  oh,  Peter,  Peter! 

PETER.  What '  s  biting  you  ?  Let  go  my  arm,  woman  ! 
Are  you  trying  to  claw  the  coat  off  me  ? 

PRUDENCE.  Send  him  away!  Send  him  away!  Send 
him  away! 

PETER.     Take  your  hands  off  me. 
PRUDENCE.     Send  him  away! 
PETER.     Send  who  away? 

PRUDENCE.  That  man !  That  man  over  there !  I'm 
afraid  of  him! 

PETER.     What  man? 

PRUDENCE.  He  came  in  without  knocking.  I  thought  it 
was  you !  He  '  s  terrible  —  he  '  s  crazy !  Look  at  his 
eyes!  Send  him  away! 

12 


PETER.  Go  on!  Don't  be  a  fool!  There's  nobody 
here. 

PRUDENCE.  Over  there !  He  was  standing  by  the  table. 
The  table  over  there.  .  .  .  He  '  s  gone ! 

[They  both  move  across  the  room,  but  the  Tramp 
has  disappeared  in  the  darkness.] 

PETER.  You  've  been  asleep!  You  've  had  a  nightmare. 
You  Ve  been  worrying  again.  You  'd  no  call  to  sit  up 
waiting  for  me.  There  's  been  nobody  here. 

PRUDENCE.     I  could  have  taken  my  solemn  oath !     .     .     . 

PETER.  [Roughly.]  You  '11  take  no  oaths  except  them 
I  tell  you  to.  Go  to  bed ! 

PRUDENCE.     Where  Ve  you  been? 

PETER.  Up  to  the  church.  I  stayed  to  a  vestry  meeting. 
I  walked  home  slow. 

PRUDENCE.     You  Ve  decided  what  we  're  going  to  do  ? 

PETER.  Go  to  bed  and  let  me  think.  I  '11  tell  you  in  the 
morning. 

[Prudence  moves  toiuard  the  inside  door.     Peter 
calls  her  back.] 

PETER.  Look  here!  You  '11  keep  your  mouth  shut? 
You  '11  stick  to  that  ? 

PRUDENCE.  Yes.  [She  makes  a  move  as  if  she  were 
coming  back  to  say  something.] 

PETER.  Get  out  of  here  and  let  me  alone.  [He  sits  down 
in  the  chair  by  the  fire  and  puts  his  face  in  his  hands. 
Prudence  goes  out.  The  Tramp  reappears] 

TRAMP.  Well,  Peter  Steele,  is  it  easy  to  think  of  perjury 
and  theft  on  Christmas  morning? 

PETER.     God !     Who  's  talking  to  me ! 

'3 


TRAMP.     A  greater  rogue  than  yourself. 

PETER.     [Rising.'}    I  see  you  now,  confound  you!    Where 
were  you  hiding  when  I  came  in  ? 

TRAMP.     No  matter ! 

PETER.     So,  my  wife  was  n't  dreaming,  eh! 

TRAMP.     No  more  than  you  are. 

PETER.     You  frightened  her,  eh!     I  '11  make  short  work 
of  you.     [He  begins  rolling  up  his  sleeves.] 

TRAMP.     I  only  gave  her  a  little  advice. 

PETER.     Damn    you !      I  '11    give    you    something    else ! 
[He  moves  toward  the  Tramp.] 

TRAMP.     [Coolly.]     Sit  down! 

PETER.     Get  out  of  here,  with  your  advice!     Get  out,  I 
tell  you,  before  I  kick  you  out. 

TRAMP.     [More  harshly  but  without  moving]     Sit  down. 

PETER.     You  can  't  frighten  me  with  your  talk.    I  'm  an 
honest  man,  I  tell  you. 

TRAMP.     So  was  I  once. 

PETER.     What  have  you  got  to  do  with  me,  damn  you? 

TRAMP.     '  For  there  is  nothing  covered  that  shall  not  be 
revealed,  neither  hid  that  shall  not  be  known. ' 

PETER.     [With  a  sigh  of  relief]    Oh,  I  see  now.    You  're 
only  a  traveling  preacher. 

TRAMP.     No,  but  I  've  travelled  much  and  worn  the  cloth 
in  my  time. 

PETER.     I  'm  dashed  if  I  see  what  you  're  driving  at ! 
TRAMP.     You  will  presently. 
PETER.     I  won  't  listen  to  you. 

H 


TRAMP.     You  know  what  's  coming. 

PETER.  How  should  I  know  what  's  coming?  I  '11  — 
I'll  — 

TRAMP.  You  '11  listen,  Peter  Steele,  because  I  'm  going 
to  tell  you  something  about  yourself  and  you  '11  know  it 
for  the  truth. 

PETER.  If  —  if  some  one  sent  you  here  to  pump  me, 
you  'd  better  be  off,  or  I  '11  have  the  law  on  you  both. 

TRAMP.  You  had  a  friend,  Peter  Steele,  and  you  loved 
him.  He  'd  often  left  his  affairs  in  your  hands.  You  'd 
served  him  honestly  and  he  trusted  you. 

PETER.  And  why  would  n't  anybody  trust  me?  I  Ve 
been  an  honest  man,  I  tell  you. 

TRAMP.  He  came  to  you  in  this  room.  It  was  the  spring 
the  war  began.  He  had  enlisted  a  company.  Before  he 
left  he  brought  you  money,  money  to  keep  for  his  boy. 

PETER.  It 's  a  lie !  I  tell  you,  it 's  a  damned  lie !  What 
right  's  the  boy  got  to  think  his  father  gave  me  money  to 
keep  for  him?  He  ain  't  got  a  receipt,  has  he?  It  ain  't 
shown  in  the  accounts,  is  it  ? 

TRAMP.  No,  Peter  Steele,  the  boy  can  't  show  a  receipt 
and  the  entry  's  not  to  be  found  in  the  accounts. 

PETER.  By  what  token  do  you  think  a  man  would  be 
fool  enough  to  leave  money  lying  around  loose  like  that? 

TRAMP.     By  the  token  that  he  trusted  you. 

PETER.  I  never  had  it!  I  tell  you  I  never  had  it! 
What  do  you  know  about  it? 

TRAMP.     The  drums  were  beating  in  the  road.     Your 

friend  was  in  his  captain  '  s  uniform.  His  sword  lay  on 
the  table  by  the  door;  his  cloak  over  the  back  of  that 
chair.  You  sat  here.  He  stood  across  the  table  from 
you.  Your  wife  sat  where  you  're  sitting  now ;  her  uncle 
over  there  by  the  window. 

'5 


PETER.  Who  told  you  all  that?  What  tricks  are  you 
trying  to  play  on  me  ? 

TRAMP.  Your  friend  laid  the  money  on  this  table ;  thirty 
one-hundred  dollar  bills.  He  said  to  you,  "  Peter,  I  want 
to  leave  this  money  with  you.  In  case  I  don  '  t  come  back, 
I  'd  rather  my  boy  didn  *  t  count  on  anything  at  all  when 
he  makes  his  start.  I  Ve  fixed  things  safe  for  him  till  he 
can  earn  his  keep.  This  is  something  extra,  a  nest  egg  for 
him,  when  he  's  twenty-one.  "  Then  he  shook  you  by  the 
hand.  As  he  went  down  the  path,  the  drums  stopped 
beating,  and  when  the  room  was  still  again  you  heard  the 
voice  of  the  money ! 

PETER.     God,  how  did  you  know  that? 

TRAMP.  Oh,  you  meant  to  keep  faith,  Peter  Steele,  but 
you  never  entered  the  three  thousand  dollars  in  your  ac 
counts.  Well,  he  never  came  back.  You  read  his  name 
in  the  lists.  It  set  you  thinking  about  the  boy  and  the 
money.  Years  went  by.  The  boy  began  to  work  and 
earn  his  keep.  You  watched  him  grow  up  and  wondered 
if  he  guessed.  Last  week,  you  remembered  that  your  debt 
fell  due  on  the  day  after  Christmas.  Then  you  sat  down 
to  figure  interest.  You  'd  used  the  money  well  and  you 
tried  a  just  rate.  The  total  startled  5^ou.  Then  you  tried 
three  per  cent;  still  too  much!  Then  you  sat  quiet  and 
the  money  whispered  to  you,  "  Why  give  me  up  at  all  ? 
No  one  can  prove  you  ever  had  me.  " 

PETER.  And  they  can't  prove  it!  My  wife  and  her 
uncle  can  swear  they  never  saw  it  paid. 

TRAMP.     Certainly. 

PETER.     The  boy  can't  show  a  receipt. 

TRAMP.     None ! 

PETER.  No.  I  don  '  t  know  who  told  you  all  this,  but 
if  you  're  trying  to  blackmail  me,  there  's  the  door,  and  be 
damned ! 

16 


TRAMP.  I  '11  not  trouble  you  again,  whatever  decision 
you  come  to. 

PETER.  Then,  what  in  hell  did  you  come  here  for? 
Answer  me  that ! 

TRAMP.  To  advise  you  to  give  the  boy  his  money  of  your 
own  free  will. 

PETER.  Ha!     Ha!     Anything  else? 

TRAMP.  No. 

PETER.  Who  in  the  devil  are  you,  stranger  ? 

TRAMP.  Come  closer ! 

PETER.  I  can  see  you  well  enough  from  here. 

TRAMP.  Come  here  and  look  at  me.  Have  you  ever 
seen  me  before  ? 

PETER.     No,  thank  Heaven !     I  never  have. 
TRAMP.     Look  in  my  eyes. 

[Peter  moves  toward  him  as  if  dazed.] 

PETER.  They  're  like  the  eyes  of  a  cat.  There  's  fire  in 
'em! 

TRAMP.  Flame  from  a  sunset  under  Calvary.  Look  at 
my  throat ! 

PETER.  [Shrinking  away.]  I  Ve  seen  marks  like  that  on 
a  man.  .  .  . 

TRAMP.  I  hanged  myself  to  a  dead  tree  on  a  stony  hill 
side.  Listen ! 

[He  jingles  the  money  in  his  pocket.] 
PETER.     It  's  the  sound  of  money! 

TRAMP.  Thirty  pieces  of  silver,  coined  in  the  Roman 
mint  at  Jerusalem ;  the  price  of  my  soul,  that  's  walked  the 
evil  edges  of  the  world,  for  nineteen  centuries. 

'7 


PETER.     In  God's  name,  tell  me  who  you  are ! 

TRAMP.  The  one  being  that  knows  best  the  priceless 
value  of  the  thing  you  're  so  ready  to  sell,  —  Judas  of 
Kerioth. 

\He  advances  toward  Peter,  who  sinks  into  the 
chair  by  the  fire,  cowering  away  from  him.] 

PETER.     Let  me  alone,  I  say !     Let  me  alone ! 

TRAMP.  You  'd  been  an  honest  man,  Peter  Steele,  and 
the  sun  had  warmed  you  and  the  birds  piped  to  you  when 
you  ploughed  the  fields.  You  'd  looked  against  the  fa^es 
of  red  hills  when  dawn  was  new,  and  strained  your  eyes 
across  blue  valleys  at  the  close  of  day.  And  men  spoke 
you  fair  in  the  roads  and  children  turned  to  you  as  you 
passed,  till  a  little  while  ago.  What  came  over  you  that 
you  'd  put  the  joy  of  living  in  pawn  for  thirty  pieces  of 
money  ? 

PETER.  Let  me  be!  I  Ve  become  a  hard  man;  and 
money  's  a  big  thing  in  the  world.  What  's  the  piping  of 
birds  to  me.  Leave  me  alone  and  let  me  sell  my  soul  if 
I  like !  It's  mine  to  sell ! 

TRAMP.  Aye!  It  's  yours  to  sell.  To  sell  over  and 
over,  if  you  like.  There  's  money  to  be  got  for  it,  more 
than  the  first  price  you  take,  and  pride,  and  ease  of  body, 
and  fear  of  men !  But  it  isn  't  only  your  soul  you  sell, 
Peter  Steele,  and  nothing  you  get  will  compare  with  that 
which  goes  out  of  you  when  the  first  payment  clinks  in 
your  hand. 

PETER.     Let  me  be !     Let  me  be ! 

TRAMP.  You  '11  miss  the  joy  of  small  things  crying  in  the 
grass,  and  the  pleasant  sadness  that  comes  of  watching  the 
fall  of  yellow  leaves.  You  '11  take  no  comfort  in  the 
sound  of  a  woman  's  singing,  or  the  laughing  of  a  child,  or 
the  crackling  of  a  fire  in  the  grate. 

PETER.       I  was  never  a  hand  at  noticing  such  things. 

18 


TRAMP.  No,  but  an  honest  man  shares  all  the  common 
gifts  of  God.  He  feels  and  is  grateful  without  knowing 
how  or  why.  He  seldom  knows  the  joy  of  it  all,  till  he  's 
lost  the  power  of  feeling. 

PETER.     Let  me  be. 

TRAMP.  You  '11  walk  the  sunshiny  roads  and  have  only 
the  dust  of  them  in  your  throat.  You  '11  see  little  lakes 
lying  in  the  bosom  of  the  hills,  like  purple  wine  in  cups 
of  green  jade,  and  have  only  the  pain  of  daylight  in  your 
eyes.  You  '11  lie  down  to  sleep  with  the  crystal  stars  blink 
ing  at  you,  and  have  only  the  empty  blackness  of  night  in 
your  heart.  I  know  how  it  will  be  with  you,  Peter  Steele. 

PETER.     What  do  you  want  me  to  do? 

TRAMP.     Give  up  the  money  of  your  own  free  will. 

PETER.  What  interest  have  you  got  in  seeing  me  go 
straight  ?  Whose  work  are  you  doing  ? 

TRAMP.  [Slowly.}  It  's  one  thing  to  die  in  a  splendid 
agony  and  save  the  world.  It  's  another  to  drag  the 
weight  of  a  name  like  mine  from  century  to  century;  to 
live  on  and  on,  and  suffer  every  pain  of  death;  to  save  a 
man  here  and  a  man  there  only  to  balance  my  own  long 
account  —  to  die  —  to  be  forgotten. 

PETER.     To  balance  your  long  account  ? 

TRAMP.  Turn  you  from  the  thing  you  're  about  to  do, 
and  I  toss  a  grain  of  dust  into  the  scales.  There  's  a 
heavy  weight  to  be  balanced,  Peter  Steele,  and  it  's  only 
one  day  of  the  year  I  'm  free  to  search. 

PETER.     Let  me  be. 

TRAMP.     Would  you  rob  me,  too  ? 

PETER.  [Putting  his  hands  to  his  head.}  Let  me  think, 
I  tell  you !  Let  me  think ! 

'9 


[The  inside  door  opens,  and  Prudence  enters 
dressed  in  a  wrapper  and  carrying  a  small  lamp. 
As  the  light  illumines  that  side  of  the  room,  the 
gflow  fades  on  the  Tramp '  s  face  and  he  disap 
pears.  Peter  sits  with  his  head  in  his  hands,  just 
as  Prudence  left  him.] 

PRUDENCE.     Peter,  Peter,  are  you  asleep  ? 
PETER.     [Starting.]     Eh?     No. 

PRUDENCE.  Why  have  n'  t  you  come  to  bed  ?  It 's  near 
daylight. 

PETER.  I  've  been  thinking,  Prudence,  I  've  been  think 
ing. 

PRUDENCE.     About  —  about  ? 

PETER.  Say  it!  I  've  been  thinking  of  perjury  and  theft 
on  Christmas  morning.  I  Ve  been  thinking  of  selling  my 
soul  for  thirty  pieces  of  money.  [He  rises.]  But,  thank 
God,  I  have  n't  sold  it  yet. 

PRUDENCE.     [Going  to  him.]     Oh,  Peter!    Peter! 

PETER.  The  boy  will  get  his  money  on  the  nail.  I  'm 
an  honest  man,  Prue.  I  'm  an  honest  man,  I  tell  you ! 

PRUDENCE.     Oh,  Peter,  I  'm  glad,  F  m  glad ! 

PETER.  Every  penny  he  '11  get  and  interest.  Fair  inter 
est! 

PRUDENCE.     It  's  a  great  deal  of  money,  but  I'm  glad ! 

PETER.  Little  enough  to  give  for  keeping  the  joy  of  liv 
ing  in  your  heart  on  Christmas  Day. 

PRUDENCE.  I  want  to  tell  you  something.  I  could  n't 
sleep  either.  Oh,  Peter,  I  could  n't  sleep. 

PETER.     You  've  been  thinking  of  it,  too. 

PRUDENCE.  Not  about  the  money.  There  was  a  lame 
man  here  just  before  you  came  in.  I  sent  him  away.  It 

20 


worries  me,  Peter.  I  'm  sorry  I  did  n't  let  him  in.  Uncle 
saw  him.  He  'd  been  hurt.  His  feet  and  hands  were 
bandaged.  I  thought  . .  I  thought  perhaps  ...  I 
feel  as  if  he  'd  stopped  somewhere  near  the  house. 

PETER.     Which  way  did  he  go  ? 

PRUDENCE.     Toward  the  willows  at  the  bend  of  the  road. 

PETER.  [Reaching  for  his  hat  and  coat.]  Like  as  not 
he  'd  try  to  shelter  himself  there.  [He  moves  towards  the 
outside  door.] 

PRUDENCE.     Where  are  you  going  ? 

PETER.  To  find  him  and  fetch  him  back.  We  can  't 
let  him  freeze. 

[They  go  together  to  the  outside  door  and  open  it. 
It  is  morning  outside.] 

PETER.     It  's  morning  already. 

PRUDENCE.     Did  you  ever  see  such  a  dawn  on  the  snow? 

PETER.     Never  in  my  life.     [He  kisses  her  and  goes  put.] 

PRUDENCE.  [Calling  after  him.]  I  '11  have  the  coffee  on 
the  stove. 

CURTAIN. 


21 


THE    STAGE   GUILD 
PLAYS  AND  MASQUES 

Published  at 
Railway  Exchange  Building,  Chicago 

MASQUES  OF  EAST  AND  WEST.  By  Thomas 
Wood  Stevens  and  Kenneth  Sawyer  Goodman;  with  in 
troduction  by  Percy  MacKay.  Cloth,  $1.50.  The 
volume  contains  The  Daimio's  Head,  Montezuma, 
Caesar's  Gods,  Rainald  and  the  Red  Wolf,  Quetzal's 
Bowl,  and  a  Pageant  for  Independence  Day.  The 
masques  are  available  in  separate  wrappers;  The  Daimio's 
Head  (new  edition)  and  Independence  Day  at  35  cents, 
and  the  others  at  25  cents  each. 

QUICK  CURTAINS.  By  Kenneth  Sawyer  Good 
man;  Cloth,  net,  $1.50.  The  volume  contains  Dust 
of  the  Road,  The  Game  of  Chess,  Barbara,  Back  of  the 
Yards,  Ephraim  and  the  Winged  Bear,  Dancing  Dolls, 
and  A  Man  Can  Only  Do  His  Best.  These  plays  are 
also  available  in  separate  wrappers  at  3  5  cents  each. 

THE  CHAPLET  OE  PAN.  A  poetic  masque  by 
Wallace  Rice  and  Thomas  Wood  Stevens.  Paper,  net, 
35  cents. 

RYLAND,  AND  HOLBEIN  IN  BLACKFRIARS. 
by  Thomas  Wood  Stevens  and  Kenneth  Sawyer  Good 
man.  Paper,  ea.,  net,  25  cents. 


ROYALTY,  ONE-ACT  PLAYS,  $o 

Payable     to     the     Stage     Guild 


THIS   BOOK   IS   DUE  ON   THE  LAST   DATE 
STAMPED   BELOW 


BOOKS   REQUESTED  BY  ANOTHER  BORROWER 
ARE  SUBJECT  TO   IMMEDIATE   RECALL 


UC 


DEC  I     1987 

DUE  21  D; 

UC  DAVIS  -  ILL 

UtU.  i  *  19b/ 


oks 
ays 


LIBRARY,   UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  DAVIS 

Book  Slip-Series  458 


'&/T,  A 


UNIVE&TY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


